To the Victor Belong the Spoils
by Witherwings01
Summary: Haymitch Abernathy is a broken man, but why? Covering the period between the 50th and 74th Hunger Games, this is the story of a victor's loss of hope and subsequent slip into depression. Rated T for mild swearing and later violence.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer** - Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins and not me. If it did Katniss would be with Gale ... You know it makes sense ;)_

* * *

**'To the Victor Belong the Spoils'**

**by Witherwings**

* * *

**Chapter One**

* * *

The noise of a car pulling up outside my house registers in some distant part of my mind. It's not a familiar sound in District 12 - most of the general population have never even seen a car, let alone have the wherewithal to own one - yet I still manage to ignore the crunch of it's tyres on the loose surface beyond my front door and return to my alcohol induced oblivion.

For a few moments at least.

The all too familiar click, clack of stilettos follows close on the heels of the car's door slamming shut, the footsteps growing ever closer until there is a rap at the front door and a muffled, female voice calling for me by name.

The sound goes right through me, but I know I won't get any peace until I answer it. "I heard you," I bark, the incessant knocking finally falling silent as my croaky voice reaches my visitors ears. "Keep your pretty pink hair on," I add sotto voce, already fully aware of the identity of my caller.

Pocketing the knife I always keep with me during the few restless hours of sleep my body obliges me to endure each night, I rise from my slumped position on my makeshift bed - the dinning room table - my right cheek sticking slightly to an unidentifiable substance which has congealed on its surface. Shakily, I push myself upright and stagger towards the front door, my dragging feet sending empty liquor bottles rolling noisily across the floor. By the time I reach my destination my senses are swimming. Pushing the heel of my right hand into my temple, in a futile attempt to reduce the pounding there, my other hand fumbles with the door lock which releases with an audible click a moment later.

In response to the sound, my visitor pushes the front door fully open, allowing the too bright sunlight to pour over the threshold. My eyelids retreat to slits leaving me squinting at the woman through the tangle of my own eyelashes.

"Hello Haymitch," comes the familiar, and unwelcome voice of Effie Trinket, District 12's official escort. Today she's wearing a ghastly spring green suit which clashes horribly with her bright pink hair. "Ready for another big, big ... " Her voice trails away to nothing, her eyes narrowing disdainfully, as she takes in the interior of my home. No, scrub that. Never, not in more that twenty years of residing here, have I considered this place home. Some would consider a luxury house in the victor's village a dream come true. A reward for victory. My fellow victors and I know better. It is not some sort of medal to be worn with pride, but instead, a millstone that hangs around each of our necks until the day we die.

"Still haven't taken my advice to spend some of your winnings on a maid I see?" adds Effie after a beat, her nose wrinkling in disgust.

"A pleasure to see you again too, sweetheart," I say, enjoying her discomfort immensely.

She, like all of the cosseted citizens of the far of Capitol, is the polar opposite to people like me who live, work and die in District 12. They are the wind; insubstantial, superficial, changing direction on a whim. Whereas, I, and the people of District 12, have grown to be as cold and hard as the very rocks we burrow through in search of the precious coal all of Panem demands.

Composing herself by feigning the need to flip through the timetable affixed to her clipboard (despite my certainty that she has already committed it to memory in its entirety), Effie finally re-finds her voice and says, "It's one o'clock, Haymitch. Remember we need you on stage in the town square by two."

A deep, mirthless chuckle escapes my throat. "I've been doing this since your Mommy was cleaning the turds off your pretty little behind, darling. I know the drill. I'll be there."

"Yes, well," splutters Effie as I make no effort to hide my amusement at her discomfort. "Make sure that you are. I have a feeling this could be our year."

A ripple of anger crosses my features. _Our year?_ I seethe silently._ How dare she - a delicate little Capitol baby - refer to herself as if she were one of us...even in passing._ _No child raised in the privileged world of Panem's first city would last two minutes in the Seam. Less than half that should they be awarded the 'honor' __of becoming the District's tribute._ "Twenty-third time's the charm," I say through gritted teeth, managing to quell my true emotions only because of the knowledge that the Capitol would be quick to punish the population of District 12 should I step out of line.

Apparently ignorant of my silent rage, Effie's mood brightens considerably. "That's the spirit," she says, turning to leave. "I'll see you in the square. Remember, two o'clock." She only makes it down two of the three steps down to street level, however, before she comes to an abrupt halt. "You don't need a lift, do you?"

For a moment I toy with the idea of taking her up on the offer. I can tell from her expression that she would much rather I declined, only her ridiculous obsession with good manners prompting it in the first place, but disregard it almost as quickly. As much as it would entertain me to watch the prim young woman squirm in my less than debonair company for then next hour or so, even this short conversation with the oppressively chipper escort, has convinced me that I am going to need several more drinks to make this afternoon bearable. I say as much aloud, my statement eliciting a look of commingled relief and disgust on the young woman's face.

Behind her, the chauffeur of her black, government issued car, exits the vehicle and opens one of the rear doors, the sound of his boots on the gravel drive drawing Effie's attention. Taking her cue to leave gratefully, she trots back to the car, pausing briefly to offer a last nugget of advice. "Just - just try to be on time, OK?" she says. "And let's try to look at least a little more presentable," she adds, subconsciously adjusting her wig. "The whole of Panem will be ..."

By way of an answer, I slam the front door loudly cutting of Effie's final words. I mutter something obscene and make my way back to the kitchen, my own words ringing loudly in my ears,_ 'Twenty-third time's the charm...'_ Can it really have been so long? Have I really witnessed forty four children under my tutelage die? Forty four innocent lives extinguished all in the name of_ ... entertainment_.

_And now the reapings have rolled around again, _I think despairingly_. With luck, perhaps I'll draw a couple of twelve-year-old's who won't last more than the first minute. Then it will all be over - for another year at least._

Appalled by my line of thought - morose even for me - I slump down in my chair and mechanically pull an unopened bottle of white liquor towards me. With practised ease, I unscrew the lid and take a long pull straight from the bottle, the fiery liquid burning my throat as I swallow it down giving me a different kind of pain to focus on, a brief moment of clarity stemming from that distraction.

No, it really wasn't true what they say.

That only one of us can survive the Games.

I, like all my fellow victors, am condemned just as readily as the tributes who perished in the arena. A longer, more drawn out death to be sure, but death nevertheless. Oh, yes, unlike my competitors - forty seven of them in my case - my heart still beats within my chest, my lungs continue to pull down air thick with coal dust, I eat, I drink - yes, a great deal of the latter - but I haven't truly lived a day since my name was called during the reaping twenty four years ago.

_To the victors belong the spoils._ A wry snort of amusement sounds deep in the back of my throat as the words spoken a hundred lifetimes ago, by some, now long forgotten leader, filter into my thoughts unbidden. Seventy three victors may have been crowned over the years, but there has only ever been one winner, and not once has it been the boy or girl left standing come the bloody conclusion to the games. I, like most of my fellow victors, won nothing. We exist, but little more. A swift death at the hands of a competitor seems almost humane by comparison now. But then, of course, this is exactly how President Snow, the one true champion of the Hunger Games, wishes it to be.

If even the strongest amongst us are broken, damaged beyond repair, what chance is there for the rest of us? Perhaps some day someone stronger can challenge the status quo, but it won't be me. I've suffered enough pain for ten lifetimes. My story is not unique, nor is it the worst, but it is mine, and it is all I have left.

My name is Haymitch Abernathy, and this is my story...

* * *

**TBC...**

* * *

_**Author Musings**_

_Hello all. This my very first Hunger Games fic, so be gentle ;) Haymitch is, IMNSHO, by far an away the most interesting character in the books, and whilst no doubt it has been done before (and probably far better than I can manage), I simply had to try and tell his story. Real life is very busy, so it won't be finished quickly, but I have never failed to finish a story yet and don't intend to start now. Next chapter we jump back to the Haymitch's 'triumphant' return to 12._

_As I don't want to spoil Hunger Games for my regular beta's this story is unchecked, so I'm relying on you guys to help me out on that front - especially as this is my first attempt at first person narrative - it just seemed wrong to write HG in 3rd person. *shrugs*_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer** - Checks reflection. Nope, still a guy, so I can't be Suzanne Collins._

* * *

**'To the Victor Belong the Spoils'**

**by Witherwings**

* * *

**Chapter Two**

* * *

"Would you stop doing that." The voice of my mentor, Sabine Jaeger, winner of the 17th Hunger Games, pulls me from my thoughts with a jolt, her firm reprimand carrying with it a hint of humor and a trace of something else, barely detectable, which I can not place.

"Sorry," I mutter, forcing my hand to stop worrying at fabric of the charcoal suit my stylist has me wearing this evening, or, more accurately, the new flesh hidden beneath my clothes that the Capitol's doctors grafted onto my stomach to prevent my intestines from spilling out onto the highly polished marble floor. Objectively I understand that the medical staff have fixed me up as good as new - better than new in fact - but deep down I have a nagging feeling that I have lost something in the arena. Something that can never be replaced.

Not that you would know it to look at me. Thanks to something my prep team called a full body polish, not a mark or blemish remains on my skin. The new skin matches exactly the olive tones so common back home in the Seam, with not a stitch mark or visible join anywhere - not even the small birthmark on the back of my right ankle survived their attention.

Physical appearance alone then, anyone living under a rock this past month would have no reason to believe that I had triumphed in the bloodiest Hunger Games ever seen. However, even the borderline magical abilities of Panem's most gifted doctor's have their limitations; some scars are invisible and run so deep that they can never been repaired. These scars, I am sure, will be with me for the rest of my days.

Sabine, one of the few people in the world who can understand that pain, draws level with my shoulder. She is lean and tall, with shoulder length, almost white hair that I know from watching old videos was once blonde. For a few moments she joins me in silence, gazing at the glittering city circle through one of the large floor to ceiling windows of the President's mansion.

"Sorry to startle you, Haymitch," she says after indeterminate period of time, the twinkling lights of Panem's first city reflecting in her blue eyes. By way of response I offer my mentor a shrug. Having spent nearly three weeks fighting tooth an nail to stay alive, I haven't quite managed to readjust to a normal life where unexpected sounds do not automatically spell instant death. "But they're about to notice the star of the party is missing," she adds with a nod towards the ongoing victory party at our backs, the sounds of a string quartet filtering back into my awareness as if I had managed to block out the esthesis of the party during my few moments of solitude.

The melody is somehow familiar, although I can't place it. Beautiful harmonies, whilst festive enough and certainly befitting the celebratory nature of the party, speak to me, not of victory and celebrations, but of great loss and sadness instead. We lapse back into a companionable silence for a few moments, each lost to our own thoughts.

On the streets below, a sea of humanity fills the pavements, and although noise of the crowd is lost behind, what I presume to be, sound proof glass, it is evident that they are celebrating the climax of the Games. I find myself wondering whether the people back in District 12 are celebrating tonight. Three families, I am sure, will not be.

"Home." The single word, spoken almost reverently, slips past Sabine's lips like a breath of wind.

"What?"

"You were thinking of home," she replies placing a hand on my shoulder. I am gratified to note, that for the first time since leaving the arena, I do not flinch at the touch of another human being.

Behind us, the cadence of the ever present drone of conversation has changed slightly. Even without turning around it is not hard for me to picture the dignitaries and VIPs invited to the Presidential mansion searching for their star attraction. Understanding it would not take the party goers long to find us, I search my feelings and realise that my mentor is correct; my most recent mental images centring on my those of my mother, younger younger brother, Rhyl, and my girlfriend, Heidii. But how did she known? I ask as much aloud.

A warm smile graces Sabine's face. It is the first time I can ever recall the expression truly reaching her eyes, and the change sheds years from her face. She, I know, was seventeen when she was crowned victor, meaning she was now entering her sixth decade of life - widely considered to be old age for someone who lives in the harsh environment of District 12 - but when she smiles, I can easily envision that I am speaking with someone my mother's age, rather than someone from a generation older still.

"I saw you looking at the city," she answers. "So wasn't that what you were thinking about? Home? Family? A girl perhaps?"

I feel a slight blush creeping into my cheeks. "Yes," I admit. "But how did you know that _was_ what I was thinking about?"

Sabine's expression falters, her lips pressing together into a firm line. It is a look I recognise from our training sessions prior to the Games and I know she isn't going to answer my question. Instead she asks one of her own. "What do you think the reaction to your little stunt with the forcefield has been in the Capitol?"

Slightly thrown by her abrupt change of subject, my brows pinch together into a frown of confusion. "I - I don't know," I stammer, frustration causing my fists to ball at my side – I only ever stammer around the often strict mentor and it drives me to distraction. "Everyone seems to think it was quite spectacular," I say at length, recalling Caesar Flickerman's comments from my television appearance just a few hours beforehand.

"Don't be stupid, Haymitch," she snaps in reply, her obvious ire allowing cracks to appear in her usually stoic mien. It is those cracks that permit me a glimpse of the woman behind the façade, and for the first time since I was introduced to her, I detect a trace of ... _concern? _No, fear – the same emotion I had been unable to decipher in her voice earlier. "Not those vapid Capitol drones who live for the Games, who bet on the lives of the tributes. The _Capitol_." She gestures the vast ball room with both her arms. "President Snow."

"Oh," I say, still not quite following the distinction. "He seemed OK on the stage for the crowning."

Footsteps immediately behind us tell me our conversation is no longer private, several unidentifiable voices chiding Sabine for monopolising my time. "I beg your indulgence," she says, sliding her palm down to the small of my back. "Just one more moment and then you may have your victor back." Without waiting for sounds of ascent she uses her hold on me to guide me towards another window a few paces away from the growing crowd.

Her voice now an urgent whisper, Sabine continues. "I thought you were intelligent, boy. _Think!_" She taps her temple for effect. "That was for the cameras. How do you think it reflected on the Capitol, on him, that you were able to use the very tool the Gamemakers designed to keep you within the boundaries of the arena as a weapon?"

My eyes widen in understanding. "Not best pleased I imagine."

"Precisely. Word is he's furious with you."

Subconsciously I can feel the crush of the party goers edging up behind us once more. They won't be denied their victor much longer.

"But, Flickerman - " I stutter, remembering a line the host had fed me during the interview. " - Flickerman made it sound as if it was all some sort of delusional act carried out by someone on the brink of death."

"And that's exactly the line you need to stick to," says Sabine, her lips now all but pressed against my lips to ward against eavesdroppers. "President snow is a dangerous ... "

"_Mr Abernathy._" The overpowering smell of roses reaches my nose at almost the same instant the new voice registers in my mind, the speaker elongating the four syllables of my family name in a manner that makes it sound like something dirty you might find on the bottom of your shoe. "I want to congratulate you on your victory. Your solution was as unexpected as it was ingenious."

Mindful of my mentor's advice, I turn, and find myself face to face with President Snow. "Thank you," I say noting that Sabine, along with the crowd, have melted into the background. No one dares interrupt the President it seems. "But I'm not sure I completely follow you, Mr President. My solution?"

"Come now," replies Snow, his lips breaking into a tight smile which I feel could more accurately be described as a grimace. "You don't expect me to believe that your triumph was..._accidental_?"

_He knows!_ I think. _Somehow he knows! _The three hour highlight show hadn't shown my first visit to the edge of the arena with Maysilee, nor the stone I kicked off the precipice only to have it rebound back to it's original position, but perhaps the President had seen the un-edited footage - he would certainly be privy to it.

"What can I say," I say, trying, and I fear failing, to keep my voice even and composed. "I'd lost a lot of blood. I was barely conscious. I didn't really know what I was doing. I just saw the axe coming straight for me and dodged it. Next thing I know it rebounded and buried itself in her head."

For a moment, the President says nothing, his eyes boring into me as if seeing me in a whole new light. Had my story truly been convincing enough that he now believed me, or was his scrutiny motivated by something else?

Apparently satisfied with his findings, he rearranges his face into what I have already termed his politician's face, his over plump lips stretching into a smile once more. "Either way," he says. "It has certainly provided us with a worthy victor. How about a toast to celebrate your success?" He snaps his long fingers, a drink appearing there, as if by magic.

An instant later, a flute containing a near colorless, carbonated liquid is pressed into my hand by a heretofore unnoticed female Avox. "No thank you," I say declining the offer. "I don't drink." But whether I'm motivated by my dislike of alcoholic drinks, or something more sinister, I can not say.

"Suit yourself," says Snow, draining the bubbling drink in a single gulp. Smacking his lips together in appreciation, he places the empty glass atop a decorative column. "Your loss. It really is a fabulous vintage."

I fight the urge to wrinkle my nose in disgust as a new smell, one I have grown intimately familiar with over the last few weeks, assaults my nose over the still powerful smell of rose petals - _blood_. I eye the crystal glass wearily, wondering what on earth it could contain to produce such an awful odor and set it down on the same column, the Avox girl immediately placing both my full, and Snow's empty glass on her tray.

"Well I must say our little chat has been most ... _enlightening_, Mr Abernathy," says Snow. I know I am being dismissed and I fight the urge to exhale loudly in relief feeling I might have just done enough to convince him of my story. "But I mustn't keep you from your adorning public. You will pass on my good wishes to your mother, and little Rhyl of course. I promise we'll reunite you very soon."

Without another word, the President turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd which immediately descends on me. Hands reach out on all sides of me, shaking my hand or slapping my shoulder. Congratulation overlap one another until the individual words are lost in the cacophony of noise, but I am barely aware of them, a feeling of unease settling over me as I watch the retreating back of President Snow. Are the Games finally at an end, or are they just beginning?

* * *

_**Author Musings**_

_Well I didn't expect that to go the page as easily (or quickly) as it did, but there we are. Hope you liked it folks but I can't promise that future updates will be so prompt._

_As always, there are a couple of things I want to pick up on. _

_First up, I wanted to portray the 16 year old Haymitch as a little more naïve, requiring Sabine to spell it out fot him (btw, I'd love any thoughts on Sabine).Yes, even back then, he's smart, but he's also still just a kid and perhaps wouldn't immediately assume that his actions in the arena would have any negative consequences. I'm pretty sure that if he had, he wouldn't have pulled off his little stunt with the forcefield. _

_Second. Yes, Snow just tried to poison Haymitch. I wanted to allude to the fact that, as this is 24 years in the past, the smell of blood only filled the air in the immediate aftermath of him downing the drink. Haymitch could have no idea what that signified at the time, but over the following quarter century, the President pulled the same trick so often that eventually the sores in his mouth never healed._


	3. Chapter 3

_**Disclaimer** - I wonder what will happen if I don't tell the world that Hunger Games isn't mine? *Bolt of lightning* OK - OK, I get it! I am not Suzanne Collin's. I do not own Hunger Games. Happy now, universe? _

* * *

**'To the Victor Belong the Spoils'**

**by Witherwings**

* * *

**Chapter Three**

* * *

"Are you ready for this, Haymitch?"

To my surprise, it is my escort, and not Sabine, who poses the question in response to the anxiety I know must be etched on my features as we near our destination; the long journey home finally drawing to a close.

"Yeah, Mailyn," I reply, without turning towards her, my unfocused eyes gazing instead at the blured streaks of color as they flash by the train's window. "I'm just ... " My words trail away to nothing._ I'm what?_ What exactly is it that I am supposed to be feeling as I watch District 12 - _home_ - appear on the horizo_n_? _Jubilation? Relief? Guilt? Worry?_

In truth, I have probably experienced all of those (and then some) at one point or another during the last few days, but, following Sabine's ominous warning, and my subsequent audience with President Snow, it is my more negative emotions which have become most prevalent. The self anointed leader of Panem was cordial enough during our brief conversation at the Victor's party yesterday, but still my stomach twists into knots of apprehension whenever I consider his carefully selected words.

True, there were no threats held within - implied or otherwise - but I can not help but worry that it is not what he chose to say in front of so many witnesses that should concern me, but rather what he did _not_. Sabine is the only one I trust with these concerns, but since re-boarding the train to transport us home, she has become sullen and withdrawn, spending large periods of time isolated in her cabin.

Retrospectively, given her obvious melancholy, I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised that it was not my mentor who posed the question - in fact, only now do I note that she is once again absent.

I can only guess at the reasons behind her shift in personality, but I would wager my winnings that it has everything to do with the bodies of my fellow tributes that share our transportation home. I try not to think about the three wooden coffins riding in the sealed compartment at the rear of the train, but, with with Sabine spending so much of her time sequestered in private, and the long periods of silence that stretch well beyond comfortable levels between myself and Mailyn, it is impossible not to notice the empty chairs, or the undisturbed bedding in three of the six rooms designated to our party; two daughters and one son of District 12 who will not be reunited with their loved ones.

In my more morose moments, I find myself wondering if it would have been easier if I had joined them. What am I supposed to do now? Take up a hobby? Mentor future tributes as Sabine has done all of these years?

At this distance, District 12 is little more that a dark smudge against the rolling green hills which surround it on three sides. However, travelling as we are, at close to 400kph, I know there can be just a matter of minutes left for me to work through my warring emotions before the train pulls into the station. After all, the cameras do not stop rolling just because the games are officially at an end.

"It's natural to feel conflicted," says Mailyn, pulling me back to the present, her whispy, Capitol accent for once not setting my teeth on edge. "On the one hand you must be overjoyed at the prospect of being reunited with those closest to you, but, on the other - " she continues without pausing for breath, " - you know that forty seven other families won't get that chance - at least three of whom you are going to have to face today."

Now I do pull my eyes away from the rolling countryside to face her. If I had been surprised by her first question, her last statement has left me utterly flabbergasted - I never imagined that she could be so insightful and I find myself unable to prevent my right brow arching towards the sky.

Quickly schooling my features back into the mask of indifference that I have worn since the reaping, I regard the woman sitting opposite me in a new light, and, perhaps for the first time since setting eyes on her four years ago, I _really_ look at Mailyn Qinn.

She is everything I have come to expect from citizens of the Capitol. Like so many in Panem's first city, she has been surgically 'enhanced', making it all but impossible to easily adjudge her exact age. Inwardly, I place her anywhere from 35 to 55 years old, but she might as easily be a decade older or younger again. She is a considerably shorter than I, and somewhat plumper than current Capitol trends dictate. Nonetheless, she has gone to great lengths (and presumably great expense) to follow every other fad to sweep the nation. This year she even appeared at the reaping sporting several golden stripes tattooed on her cheeks - a motif, I am told, intended to make her look like a tiger. Whether she is successful in that endeavour or not, I can not say, having never seen so much as a photograph of one the long extinct creatures. But perhaps there is more to her than meets the eye. Perhaps she is no more a 'vapid Capitol drone', as Sabine once phrased it, than I am.

Some of my thoughts must show on my face, for she adds, as if I had spoken aloud, "Don't look so surprised, Haymitch. We're not so different, you and I."

I open my mouth, but close it just as quickly, repeating the action several times as I come to realise I have no idea how to reply. It had never occurred to me that anyone born and raised in the Capitol could share anything more than DNA in common with those brought up in one of the poorer Districts.

_"Challenge your preconceptions or they will challenge you, Rallik."_ Words once spoken by my father rise to the surface of my consciousness, and, whilst I did not understand the meaning of the words at the time, something in my father's tone had made my five year old self pause at a half open door to listen.

It has been nearly eleven years since he died - black lung disease caused by long term exposure to coal dust, the healer's had said - the memory laying dormant for all those years, presumably only brought to the surface by my current line of thought. I allow a ghost of a smile plays across my lips as the memory fills me up - I had long ago come to terms with the fact that I would would only ever possess vague recollections of the man I know my mother still weeps for once in a while. However, for what ever reason, this memory - _this gift_ - is crystal clear...

_"I still say that Merchant folk shouldn't be allowed in the mines with us Seamers," _replied the other man, Rallik, whom I now recall attended my father's funeral._ "No good will come of it, you mark my words_," he concluded, punctuating the point by tapping his conjoined index and middle finger on the scrubbed wooden table I recognise as the one from the kitchen in our old house - we had to move out shortly after my father's death when my mother's wages proved insufficient to sustain our meagre existence on their own.

_"Can you hear yourself, old friend?" _said my father, and I can hear the authority his voice once carried before the black lung left him weak and gasping for breath. _"Merchant folk? Seamers? Are we so different?"_

_"You have eyes, Kovan. You only need look at them to see we are not the same. Fair skin. Eyes the same color as the sky. These people are not made to be diggers."_

My fathers intelligent seam eyes, so like my own, narrowed in response. _"Those differences are no more than skin deep and you know it. You remember the school lessons about the before time as well as I - our nation is built on the ruins of a society that once discriminated against people on the grounds of nothing more than the color of their skin!"_

_"Be that as it may," _answered Rallik cooly. _"But it doesn't change the facts. They're undisciplined. Soft. A danger to themselves and anyone else unfortunate enough to draw a shift with them."_

_"And you know this first hand? I've worked with these people. They're inexperienced, yes, but no more so that your average seventeen year old on his first Lokie ride. They're hard working though; quick to learn. I would gladly trust them with my life, and you would too if you just gave them a chance to prove it to you." A noise originating deep within Rallik's chest; one that spoke of his scepticism, filled the room, but my father ignored him. "More to the point, we need them, Rallik - we haven't met a quota in months, and you know the Capitol won't accept our excuses much longer. They'll send men. Lots of men. And force us to..."_

_"Then let them come," _roared Rallik, the sound of his fist pounding the table evidently enough to frighten my five year old self away from his spot of secluded eavesdropping, the rest of the memory fading to nothingness.

The story of the first merchant born miners is one I know well, yet, prior to a few moments ago, I had no recollection that my father had been instrumental in making it a reality. Today, only a handful of children born to the slightly more privileged merchant class choose the life of a digger, but they have proven their worth countless times. Most recently in the rescue of a dozen workers when the steam locomotive, used to haul coal to the breakers, derailed and struck a tunnel support causing a cave in.

Recognising that I have been no more open minded than Rallik had been, I offer Mailyn a subtle inclination of my head in acceptance of her words. Perhaps we really weren't so different after all. After all, if it were possible for those in favored districts to see participation in the Hunger Games as an honor rather than a death sentence, surely it was also feasible that there could be Capitol citizens who felt compassion towards those forced to fight to the death in the Games, perhaps even anger directed at those who created it.

Giving me no time to analyse my new outlook, Mailyn pushes herself to her feet. "Come on," she says, breaking the pensive silence into which I had fallen. Without further explanation, she makes her way towards the rear of the compartment, cautiously picking her way between the furniture.

Understanding that I am to follow, I quickly catch up to her, my more athletic physique making short work of navigating between the haphazardly arranged furniture of the swaying carriage. "Where are we going?" I ask.

"To say goodbye."

Immediately I fall silent, my eyebrows hooding my eyes as I assimilate her meaning. _She's taking me to see the others. _My heart feels like it has been plunged into a bucket of ice water as I deduce her intentions. Could she somehow know that, motivated by I don't know what - _Morbid curiosity? Guilt?_ _A need for closure?_ - on more than one occasion on the journey home I have found myself standing at the door to the morgue? I have never been able to bring myself to push the door aside and face the scene behind it, but what I have not witnessed with my own eyes, my nightmares have supplied - sufficiently gruesome mental images of their broken and battered bodies assaulting my mind every time my body obliges me to sleep.

Consumed by these thoughts I barely notice that my feet have brought me to a halt a single stride behind Mailyn, where she is tapping a security code into a concealed keyboard in the partition wall, rendering my lack of fortitude on my previous visits to this spot moot - even if I had possessed the courage I would have been no more able to overcome the security measures here than I was at the arena's boundary. However, the knowledge does little to assuage my shame at my inability to overcome my fear.

A soft exhalation of air accompanies the doors movement as it slides effortlessly into the wall, my skin turning immediately to gooseflesh as a blast of frigid air assaults my skin. I follow my escort over the threshold, my heart beating a heady, painful rhythm somewhere near my throat.

Presumably in response to our presence, the compartments illumination instantaneously increases by a factor of five, the three simple coffins, lying before us in a line, now bathed in stark, florescent lighting. All three are open and raised on small stands to chest height, but the sides of the wooden caskets prevent me from identifying the individual occupants from this angle.

In an obvious gesture of invitation, Mailyn wordlessly steps aside, one arm extended towards the trio of coffins.

Swallowing hard, I step up to the first coffin, my gaze settling on the familiar head of wavy blonde hair of the girl who saved my life. A painful lump forms in my throat and tears prickle at my eyelids as I take in her appearance. The jagged wound, along with every other blemish or imperfection, has been repaired or removed. Dressed in the same pretty blue dress she wore on the day of the reaping, her golden Mockingjay pin affixed over her heart, she looks so peaceful she could just as easily be sleeping.

This, I hadn't expected. In all of my worst imaginings of this moment, I pictured her as she had been the last time I had seen her in the arena; ghostly white, her sky blue eyes wide with terror as the quickly expanding pool of her blood soaked into the fabric of my pants whilst I knelt over her, trying in vain to stem her bleeding by pressing my blood slicked fingers against her artery. But this - seeing her whole again, not a mark on her pale skin - this is, for reasons I can't articulate, far, far worse.

Footsteps from behind remind me that I am not alone, and I turn with the intention of requesting a moment of privacy, only to discover that my escort has already understood my wordless request, her furry, orange boots disappearing through the open doorway. Offering her my silent thanks and making a mental note to speak with her properly later, I return my attention to Maysilee. "Hey Donner," I say thickly, choosing to address her by her family name as I had always done at school, as if nothing had changed. Not true of course, but the normality of speaking to her in such a manner offers me at least a modicum of comfort. "I just came by to ... "

For the second time this afternoon, words fail me. _What did I come to do? Say?_ I had my chance in the arena, now all I have are words left unsaid, deeds left undone. I hang my head and allow the bitter tears I have been holding back to flow freely. Some of the salty droplets slipping from my cheeks and landing on the satin material of Maysilee's dress.

After an indeterminate length of time, I am roused from my grief by the train's loudspeaker crackling into life to announce that we will be arriving shortly. Sure in enough, moments later I feel the subtle shift in the forces operating against my body as the driver gently applies the brakes. Knowing my time with Maysilee is at an end, I bow low and press a gentle kiss to her ice cold cheek, two words slipping past my lips as I pull away. "Thank you."

Without a backwards glance I'm am through the door, which closes at my heels without command. I make my way forwards, my strides slightly more hurried than I would wish thanks in equal parts to the G-forces pulling me forward as the train sheds speed, and my desire to reach the solitude of my cabin - my face I am certain bearing the evidence of my distress.

Mercifully meeting no one along the way, I enter my private sanctuary for what I know will be the last time, and stumble into the washroom. I grasp the edge of the basin, certain I will fall without the support it offers, and grope for the cold faucet, the splash back from the fast running surprisingly water warm against my chilled skin. I raise my chin from where it rests on my chest and regard my reflection in the mirror set above the sink. My eyes are red, my skin blotchy, dried tear tracks still evident on my cheeks.

Cupping my hands I splash the tepid water onto my face, dabbing it dry with handfuls of paper towels, all the while wondering what good I had achieved by visiting Maysilee. I feel worse now than at any point since surviving the games. Resentment bubbles up inside me - what was Mailyn thinking taking me to see them? Surely she knew how it would affect me? _But then, _I think._ Perhaps that was her intention._ After all she, like everyone else involved in the Games (save for Sabine), works for the Capitol, and therefore, by extension, the President. Perhaps she is under orders to break me.

_Well it won't work,_ I decide, electing there and then not to show any weakness before the cameras I know will pack District 12's station and I plunge my face into the now full basin of water.

No more than a minute later I hear a knock at my door.

Knowing our arrival must be imminent, I take a final glance in the mirror and offer myself a small nod of acceptance. To the casual observer, nothing would be amiss; my olive skin has lost its mottled appearance, and my tears have dried, however, the haunted look behind my grey eyes - one I fear I will never be rid of – can not be so easily washed away.

_Still_, I think,_ it will do_, and I make my way to answer my door, my lips thinning as my gaze falls upon the person I least wanted to see.

"Are you ready for this, Haymitch?" asks Mailyn, parroting her earlier question.

I open my mouth to reply in the negative, so am slightly surprised when the word 'yes' forms on my lips instead. Even more surprisingly, I find that I mean it - perhaps my moment alone with Maysilee has proven more cathartic than I had realised.

Mailyn says nothing, but I'm sure I catch sight of a ghost of an enigmatic smile on her lips which makes me feel unaccountably guilty for my recent paranoia. It is gone, almost before I can register it, but, having learnt to trust my instincts on such matters, I come to the conclusion that her intentions had only ever been good.

Repeating her earlier gesture, she steps aside to allow me to exit, and a few moments later I find myself standing before the still closed train doors, flanked on either side by my mentor and escort respectively.

The train has almost come to a complete stop now and I can see the huge throng of people on the platform waiting to greet us - the whole of District 12 apparently eager to welcome their first victor in over a quarter of a century home.

"Big smile," urges Mailyn, as the train rolls to a halt with a barely perceptible jolt and the doors slide open silently as a wall of humid air rushes into the carriage, a cacophony of sound at its heels as the noise of the crowd assaults my ears, my name being called out by dozens of disembodied voices.

I feel a palm in the small of my back and I am thrust out onto the platform to face the press; my public; my future.

* * *

**Author Musings** - Welcome back to those waiting for an update on this story. I have no excuse for my tardiness, but I do thank you for your patience.

There are a couple of subtle Star Trek references in here if anyone wants to try and spot them. One hundred wings points if you do.

As always, I greatly appreciate any input, so don't be shy. Comment on your way out if you like.


End file.
